Healers (13 page)

“Take care,” Lily said, and she sprinted away through the meadow to the caravan.

Sean was waiting for her. She threw herself into the caravan. She was drenched to the skin. He was holding a big white towel. He wrapped it around her and took off her wet clothes and dried her as if she were his baby. Then he sat her in the corner and made hot chocolate and told her he would look after her. It was like the old days, when they had first met up. Somehow he was old self again.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “Magda wanted to talk.”

“Tell me about it later,” he said.

He blew out the paraffin lamp and they made love to the sound of the rain.

Chapter Fifteen

The detectives based in Mittingford were starting to form a cohesive team. There were shared rituals, in-jokes and a scapegoat called Newell who never washed his coffee mug or took his turn at making tea. Ramsay watched the team develop, sensed their frustration, wished he could give them a result.

Their world was this town and the surrounding farms. Ramsay knew the names by heart: Long Edge, Laverock, Denton, Holywell, could picture each of the farmers. They talked to retired farm labourers and the visitors staying in the Long Edge holiday cottages. Slowly they built up a picture of Ernie Bowles, the people he met, his weekly round of market and boozing. Then, when they took on the Val McDougal case too, they concentrated on the Alternative Therapy Centre, made visits to the regular clients and the occasional visitors who dropped in for homoeopathic remedies and advice.

On a large old blackboard in the incident room these two groups Bowles’s acquaintances and the patrons of the Alternative Therapy Centre were represented as two circles of names joined to the centre like spokes in a wheel. The circles only met through Lily Jackman and Cissie

Bowies. There was no other significant connection. After a week that was the most important conclusion the team had come to. Because they were based in Mittingford Val McDougal with her home in Otterbridge seemed on the very edge of the Alternative Therapy circle, almost incidental. Ramsay was aware of that. They hadn’t concentrated on Val enough. Next week he would send more officers to talk to her friends and colleagues and trace her movements in the days before her death. Then perhaps there would be a third circle and she would be in the middle.

But now it was Saturday night and they were all spending their overtime payments on beer in the small dusty bar the landlord had given them for their own use, to keep them away from the regular punters. Ramsayjoined them for a couple of pints for the sake of team spirit but he wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t just police company that put him off, the blue jokes, the aggressive consumption of alcohol. He’d never enjoyed any sort of social gathering. Too many inhibitions, he supposed. Diana, who adored parties, had called him a boring old fart. Affectionately at first but then with irritation. He thought Prue was still to be disappointed by his lack of social skills. At ten o’clock he left the bar. He called goodbye but nobody noticed his leaving.

He found it impossible to sleep. In the hotel’s restaurant the town’s rugby club was holding its end-of-season dinner, and bawdy songs were being bellowed long after the party in the private bar had broken up. In the end he got up, and sat by the window and tried to plan his interview with the elusive Magda Pocock.

Hunter, on his way to bed, was attracted by the noise in the restaurant. He was a football man, had a season ticket to St. James’s Park and was rather suspicious of rugby, with all that maw ling and rolling in the mud. But he was quite prepared to take advantage of the free beer that was swilling around and it was almost three before he returned to his room.

The next morning at breakfast he was pale and unusually quiet. Ramsay hadn’t often seen him with a hangover, and hoped it meant he’d keep his thoughts to himself when they interviewed the rebirther.

Despite his headache, Hunter ordered bacon and eggs. The force were picking up the expenses of their stay and he intended getting his money’s worth.

“Peter Richardson was here last night,” he said. “At the rugby do. Shouting his mouth off. About Ernie Bowles and what he’s going to do when the Laverock land’s his.”

“He seems to be taking a lot for granted,” Ramsay said. “Even if the crowd from the Old Chapel decide to sell the land, surely there’ll be an auction.”

Hunter shrugged. “I had the impression that his old man had already done a deal with them.”

“If that’s true Magda Pocock should know. She’s the senior partner in the practice.”

“That’s the line we’re going to take with her then? She’s the senior partner so she’s the most to gain from Ernie Bowles’s death.”

“No!” Ramsay said sharply. “I hope we can be more subtle than that. I’m just as interested in what she can tell us about Val McDougal. No one can explain what she was like. Quiet, shy, intimidated by her husband. Not a woman with any confidence or self-esteem but there must have been more to her than that. If she was so inoffensive why would anyone want to kill her?”

Hunter thought his boss was talking nonsense as usual. What did it matter what the woman was like? It was facts: forensic facts, blood samples, witnesses’ descriptions that solved murders, not what the woman was like. The psychology of the victim, they called it, as if the poor cow had asked to be strangled. She hadn’t and nor had Ernie Bowles if it came to that.

It was Sunday but the Old Chapel was open. It was their busiest day and at ten o’clock, when Ramsay and Hunter walked along the wet pavements from the pub, there was already a coach pulled up outside it. A group of middle-aged Americans climbed out. They had the dazed look of people who are not quite sure where they are. Then enthusiasm took over again as they went in search of souvenirs, their Midwestern voices drowning out the bells being rung in St. Cuth bert’s church across the street.

In the Alternative Therapy Centre Magda Pocock was waiting for them. Ramsay recognized her at once. She had been featured a few weeks before in a Sunday colour magazine. There was a Slavic look to her face. She had wide cheekbones, thick eyebrows and a mane of grey hair. There was nothing of her daughter’s sandy, faded look, nothing to suggest the two were related. Except the fanaticism, Ramsay thought. They had that in common. He could imagine Magda as a nineteenth-century Christian missionary converting whole continents through the joy of her certainty. Perhaps the image was so strong because of the word itself. Rebirthing made him think of being born again and fundamentalism.

“Sit down,” she said. “Perhaps you’d like some coffee?”

“Thank you.”

“We don’t usually see patients on a Sunday,” she said, ‘so we can sit here, in reception. More comfortable, I think, than my treatment room.”

“But you run your Insight Group on a Sunday.”

“Once a month, yes. I expect you’ll want to ask me about that.”

It must have been Rebecca’s day off too, because Magda went away to make the coffee herself. While they were waiting, Ramsay riffled through the leaflets on the coffee table until he found one on re birthing

Rebirthing is conscious connected breathing,

it said. Which didn’t tell him much.

“You should try it, Inspector,” Magda said in a gently mocking voice. “It might change your life.” She handed him a cup of coffee.

“Did it change Val McDougal’s life?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, serious now. “Really. I believe it did.”

“In what way?”

She sat opposite to him.

“It gave her the power to take responsibility for herself. When she came to me she was deeply unhappy. Helpless, you might say, in her unhappiness. She came to see that she could take positive steps to bring about change.”

“How did re birthing help her to do that?” His voice was neutral.

“It’s rather difficult to explain to someone who’s never experienced it,” she said. “Perhaps to you it sounds fanciful … The breathing relaxes the body’s natural energies. In Val’s case it gave her a sense of control which she was able to take into her everyday life.”

Did it? Ramsay thought. There was no indication that she’d found the courage to stand up to her husband. But perhaps she had. Perhaps she was planning to leave him. That would provide a motive for murder.

“Could you take us through one of your sessions with McDougal?” Ramsay asked.

“You do realize that usually my work is confidential, Inspector.”

Ramsay sensed that Hunter was about to be rude and anticipated him.

“Of course,” he said. “But in the circumstances … What happened, for example, when she first came to see you? She was referred by your son-in-law?”

“By Daniel. Yes.” Just in those words Ramsay sensed that she disliked Daniel Abbot.

“And that was last summer?”

“August,” she said. “I looked it up when I heard you wanted to see me. But I’m not sure how relevant this is, Inspector. She came to my group but she hasn’t attended any re birthing sessions since Christmas.”

“All the same …” he said.

“Very well,” Magda said. “If you think it will help. She was very nervous when she first came to me. Very tense. That is quite usual. I always spend time talking to my client before we start the breathing. I asked Val what she hoped to get out of the sessions. She was having panic attacks, she said. Very frightening panic attacks. She had gone to her GP but he could only suggest tranquillizers. That too, unfortunately, is quite usual. Most of all she wanted the panic attacks to stop. I suggested that the attacks were merely a symptom of her problems and that we should look more deeply at what she might hope to achieve. We talked about her relationship with her husband and her children. It was clear that she felt uncomfortable in expressing her own needs … There was a lot of frustration and resentment.”

“How long would that part of the session have lasted?”

“Half an hour. Longer perhaps. Val was very reserved at that stage. Not used to talking about her feelings. I had to give her time.”

“And then?”

“Then we’d begin the breathing. That’s what re birthing is, you see a specific breathing technique.”

“And that is?”

“To consciously breathe correctly to have no gap between inhaling and exhaling.”

“That’s it?” Hunter could contain himself no longer. “You charge fifty quid a session to teach them that?”

Magda laughed out loud. She was quite unoffended. “Not quite,” she said. “During the breathing the client becomes aware of tensions. I can encourage the client to feel safe, to continue breathing while they are feeling whatever they are experiencing. This can integrate the feelings and resolve the tensions.”

“What happened during Mrs. McDougal’s sessions?” Ramsay asked.

Magda hesitated.

“In the first session she began to hyperventilate,” she said at last. “That’s not uncommon. Especially with clients who suffer from panic attacks. I helped her breathe through it. I showed her that she could control her own reactions.

That gave her confidence.”

“How long does the breathing last?”

“Usually between one and two hours.”

“Don’t they get bored?” Hunter demanded. “Just lying there for an hour and a half. Breathing?”

She laughed again. “Not at all, Sergeant. Really, a re birthing session can be a most exciting experience. You should try it. I’d even give you a discount.”

Money for old rope, Hunter thought. There should be a law against it.

“What happens then?” Ramsay asked. “After the breathing?”

“Sometimes we talk through the issues that have emerged during the session. In Val’s case that was the relationship with her husband, her inability to assert herself.”

“How many sessions did Val have?”

“Ten. That’s usual. I like to arrange the length of the course before we start. If it’s left open-ended there’s a danger of the client becoming dependent. That’s counter-productive, of course.”

“But you encouraged McDougal to come to your Sunday afternoon group?”

“That’s quite different, Inspector. Much less intense. Besides, Val and I became friends. We were, I suppose, mutually dependent. I’ll miss her.”

“What happened at the group on Sunday?”

Magda shrugged. “For the last few sessions we’ve been looking at a technique called Voice Dialogue which was developed by American therapists. I’d been working individually with group members but on Sunday I put the group into pairs. One member would be the facilitator and the other the client. In Voice Dialogue the facilitator talks to different parts of the personality: the vulnerable child, the teacher, the critic. It’s a way of developing a balanced and healthy ego.”

More money for old rope, Hunter thought again.

“Who was Mrs. McDougal paired with?” Ramsay asked.

“Lily Jackman,” Magda said.

“Who was the facilitator?”

“Both of them. They took it in turns.”

“Did Mrs. McDougal seem especially distressed or upset?”

“She became emotional, but that was to be expected.”

“But you don’t know what emerged from the session?”

“No, Inspector. You’d have to ask Lily.”

There was a brief silence.

“What were you doing on Saturday evening, Mrs. Pocock?”

“I was here,” she said. “In my flat upstairs.” She paused. “Val was here too. I’d invited her for supper.”

“Why?” Ramsay asked sharply. This, at least, was one gap filled. They knew now where Val had disappeared to on Saturday evening.

“Why, Inspector? Because we were friends. I wanted to spend some time with her.”

“Did you meet her regularly?”

“No,” Magda said. “This was the first occasion I’d invited her for a meal.”

“How did she seem?”

“Relaxed,” Magda said. “More relaxed than I’d ever known her.”

“What time did she leave?”

“At about eleven.”

“She wouldn’t have had to drive past Laverock Farm to go home?”

“Not usually. But it was a pleasant evening. It’s possible, I suppose, that she took that road.”

And she might have seen something, Ramsay thought. The time would fit. Perhaps she passed a car she recognized.

“Where were you on Monday evening?” he asked.